The Art

From my wrinkling hands
the effulgence surges
into the blue veins
and to the tips of my fingers
it sublimates esoterically

Sometimes, it drew lines
and the latticework
becomes the ensnare
of the mad tarantula
that is my hands

Sometimes, like a butterfly
blooming from its chrysalis
it spread its wings for the wind
and its colours glide in search
for its own cradle of petals

Sometimes, its brown molt
folds like an origami and
becomes a moth inveigled
by sputtering tongues of flames
soon shall it burn and fade

Sometimes, it deflects
the words that cannot be said
or the poems that remain unread
into dithering silhouettes
that will remain unsculpted

And these shadows
born by fluid motions
and metamorphosing palettes
are the sprouts - veins crawling
from the unfathomable pit
of suppressed inkblots.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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